


Recovery, Sort Of

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A shit ton of projection, Angst?, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, mental health, not a happy ending but not a bad one either, recovery is hard and slow, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: I wrote this mostly for myself to work through some shit, but figured might as well throw it up here too? Fill for a prompt on on-the-disc.





	Recovery, Sort Of

Things were better now. The apocalypse had happened, or rather it had not. Hell no longer controlled him. Crowley knew he never had to set foot back down there again. He was free, and Aziraphale was by his side, and he had everything he had ever dreamed of.

So  _ why _ .  _ Why  _ did he still feel this ache? This emptiness, this fear.  _ Why  _ when something went a tiny bit wrong was his first thought that it would be better if he ceased to exist. He didn’t actually want to die, not anymore, but the thoughts were still there. Even though things were better now, even though everything was fine. 

  
  


The desire to be loved and the knowledge he could never deserve it filled his mind, even as Aziraphale kissed his hand and told him he adored him. He still felt alone, even side by side, at last, with the person he loved. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he enjoy the happiness that was right here by his side? 

Millennia of pain don’t simply vanish, even when everything gets better, the scars of the mind remain. Patterns long etched in his brain, the reflex to wish himself out of existence burned into his synapses.

Sometimes he thinks it’s getting better. But then it all floods back, the self-destructive habits, the self-loathing, the terror and the longing for numb nothingness. 

The bad times come less often, sure, but… But why are they still here at all? His flat, warm and safe and empty, full of light, and his angel’s beautiful smile, all bright and joyful things surround him. But his heart still echoes with aches centuries old, long ignored but never forgotten. 

He has a reason for living, has hope and purpose. But the thoughts of death still lunge out, mugging him in any moment of doubt and vulnerability. 

Things are better now, aren’t they? He’s not sure. Longing to die when he was in peril and everything was wrong with the world. That had made sense. Wishing himself dead right now? That made no sense, and somehow that made it worse.

  
  


But he’d keep at it. Maybe right now he couldn’t banish his “inner demons” ironic as that was. Maybe right now he still didn’t know how to accept love, to love himself. But he’d keep trying. He’d learn, he had forever to learn. 

A hand reached out and took his, banishing the intrusive thoughts for now. They’d be back, Crowley knew that. They’d come back again and again as he adapted to this new world. But at least now, he didn’t have to face them alone. 

Recovery is hardly straight forward, it doesn’t happen all at once. But maybe, just maybe, he was healing, a tiny bit at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly for myself to work through some shit, but figured might as well throw it up here too? Fill for a prompt on on-the-disc.


End file.
